


old enough to face the dawn

by minuanos



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Adrien Agreste is a Lonely Old Man, Angst, Bittersweet Ending, Cancer, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Past Character Death, gabriel agreste is hawkmoth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-25 18:59:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19751839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minuanos/pseuds/minuanos
Summary: “What do you want?”“I want your help.”“I’m not a hero anymore,” he says. “Please leave me alone.”(in which Adrien Agreste is dying, and this is how it goes)





	old enough to face the dawn

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is brought to you by two years of me writing a bit at a time and then hiding from it for a while because it made me too sad to continue, and also pretty much the entirety of Nina Simone's 1971 album 'Here Comes The Sun'. The title comes from one of the tracks on it, called 'Angel of the Morning'.

_And there's no need to take a stand_  
_For it was I who chose to start_  
_I see no reason to take me home  
_ _For I am old enough to face the dawn_

_Just call me angel of the morning, angel_

:: ::

The girl can't be older than thirteen or fourteen, and she stands clutching at a handhold. Once upon a time, Adrien would have jumped up and given her his seat, but these days his joints are stiff enough that standing is a three-step process, and he almost feels justified in keeping his seat.

Almost.

He's caught up in his own thoughts now, thinking about his own childhood, or whatever it was, and he doesn't notice the man until it's too late.

"Hey," he hears. "It's late for you to be out on your own, sweetheart." Friendly words, but the looming stature and leering grin say otherwise. "How about I walk you home, huh?" A large hand lands on the girl's shoulder, and she flinches painfully, shrinking back into the window.

Adrien wants to say something, do something, but these days his voice is a dry whisper and his skin is stretched so thin that the brittle bones in his hand look like they would slice through his skin if he so much as formed a fist.

The girl murmurs something his old ears don't catch, and the man grins, taking another step closer. "A pretty little thing like you shouldn't have to worry," he says, and Adrien feels sick at his own helplessness.

"Excuse me," another voice says from behind him, and somebody, another girl, maybe two or three years older, pushes past the man, catching the girl by the arm and pulling her away. "Violet, our stop's coming up, remember?" She turns to the man, solid defiance in every edge of her body. "Were you wanting something from my sister, sir?"

They're clearly not related; the younger girl is pale and fair-haired to her rescuer's dark skin and long braids, but more people are looking at them now, and so the man steps down without an apology or attack.

The older girl hits the button without looking at it, keeping her other arm wrapped around Violet’s shoulders. "You okay?" she asks as the bus slows to a stop, taking her by the arm and leading her off the bus. There's a nod, and Adrien sits and watches them embrace as the bus pulls away.

Violet looks like she's crying.

When he gets home, he doesn't bother to turn on the lights; he knows the ground floor of this building off by heart. He climbs the stairs in the dark and finally reaches his bedroom, flipping the switch on the wall.

The little room is silent; the window is closed, blocking the busy sound that is Paris at night these days. He crosses to the bed and sits down gently, reaching into the second drawer down in the bedside table and cupping the little box in his hands.

"You can come out now," he says, lifting the lid. A flash of light blinds him for a second, and when it clears, two small gods are staring back at him.

"Hello, Adrien," Tikki says quietly, while Plagg, blunt as ever, blurts, "What happened to you?"

"I got old," he says simply. "It happens to the worst of us, you know."

"How long?" Tikki asks, and Adrien has to pause and think about what she's asking. How long since what?

"More than twenty years since we last talked," he says eventually.

"But how long now?" Plagg asks, and Adrien knows what he's talking about. They knew it was coming- so did he, to an extent. It's the curse of the Miraculous; the powers that mean he has never needed glasses and can still walk without a cane are the same powers that have resulted in his body beginning to consume itself, cells being created only to corrupt and destroy.

"Cancer," he admits. "I found out today."

"How long?" Tikki asks again, nothing but sympathy on her tiny face.

Adrien just shrugs. "A while," he says. "Long enough."

They nod. They're so much older than he'll ever be, so much wiser. They've been through this before; half a century ago, when Fu found that he too was dying at last and bequeathed the other Miraculouses to Adrien, and again before, passed on from protector to protector until they're needed.

They haven't been needed in a long while; all six are present and correct, although Adrien doesn't really speak with the others. He doesn't know them well enough, not the way he knows Plagg and Tikki.

"Have you any idea what you're going to do?" Tikki asks, a tinge of anxiety in her little voice.

Adrien sighs. "Not yet," he says. "It needs to be someone who'll take care of you properly, right?"

"That would be nice," Plagg agrees. "There's no problems at the moment though, are there? No evil trying to take over the world?"

Adrien shakes his head. "No evil," he echoes, but he thinks of the man on the bus and what could have happened. "Just... bad people, sometimes."

"There's always been bad people," Tikki says softly.

"There always will be," Plagg concludes. They sound so sad, these small gods who have seen it all before.

Adrien remembers the girl on the bus and smiles. "And there will always be good people willing to stand against them," he adds, and wonders if he's become profound in his old age. His foot nudges against the shopping bag he brought up with him as he stands up. "Oh, yes," he says, reaching into it. "I have food."

He lays it out across the bedspread, cheese, cookies and more- even after so many years he still remembers their favourites- and releases the catch on the box. There's a flash of light as he shuffles across the room to draw the curtains, and when he turns back they're all there.

"It's been fifty-seven years to the day," Nooroo says, because he's always kept track of that sort of thing. He doesn't have to specify what he's talking about; they all know.

Adrien wants to choke on the irony of it but instead he nods and walks out of the room and down the stairs. This time he turns on the light, and he comes back with a bottle of wine and two glasses.

They're talking amongst themselves when he enters the room. He's grateful to Tikki and Plagg for explaining so he doesn't have to.

"A toast," he says as he pours the first glass of wine, setting it carefully on the bedside table. The second one he keeps in his hand, raising it high. "To Marinette Dupain-Cheng." He could say more; he doesn't.

"Marinette," the kwamis chorus around him, and take it in turns to pass the glass carefully between them while he drinks deep to stop himself from crying.

The night is like this; a dying old boy and his tiny immortal friends, mourning as they celebrate the beginning of the end.

:: ::

Adrien sleeps late the next morning, but he's still up in time to see his first student arrive, his silhouette in the frosted glass as hesitant as always when he reaches up to knock.

"Come in," Adrien calls, and he hears the scuff of feet being wiped on the mat before George walks in.

"Sorry I'm late, Mr Agreste," he says. "My sister-"

"It's fine," Adrien says. "What was it this time?"

George is a good boy, and his sister is dying, her heart too weak and small to support her four-year-old body for what could count as a lifespan. He's thirteen and thirty at the same time, a child whose childhood ran out too fast, gangly limbs scrambling to catch up with the heaviness in his eyes.

"Nothing serious," George assures him. "She didn't want to take her medicine. Just being silly."

"I see." Adrien pats the seat in front of him. "How about we start with the Allegro?"

George practices hard, and he loves the music with the sort of passion that comes from always having to give yourself over to something else entirely. It's an escape for him, Adrien knows, and he never charges him half as much as he ought to. He'd teach him for free- he has other students, after all, and he doesn't need much- but they're a proud family and refused when he offered. He does what he can.

"Actually," George asks, "I was wondering if I could start to learn something new."

Adrien's hand stills in surprise. "Like what?" he asks, then, "You know how I feel about Einaudi."

"Not Einaudi," George says. "I was wondering if I could try, um-" he dissolves into a mumble, pale cheeks flaring pink.

"What's that? Old ears, George."

"Your piece," George blurts eventually. "The one you were playing that time I turned up early." He hums a couple of bars, an upwards arpeggio, and it sends shivers down Adrien's spine to hear it in somebody else's voice.

"Mr Agreste?" George asks, anxious when he doesn't get a response. "It's just, it's Annette's birthday next month, and it's a really nice piece, and I thought she'd like to hear it-"

"That's a really nice idea, George," Adrien manages at last. "Hold on while I look out the music." It doesn't take as long as he expects to, even though he hasn't touched it for years.

George plays the first chord tentatively, and the second more surely. "F sharp," Adrien reminds him.

"Got it."

It is a nice piece; simple and yet so powerful. As George makes his way through it, hesitant and halting, Adrien half-closes his eyes and listens and remembers and thinks.

"Are you alright, Mr Agreste?" George asks after he makes the same mistake three times in a row without being corrected.

"Pardon?"

"You seem a little distracted."

"Maybe I'm getting old," Adrien says. "It happens to the worst of us, George."

His student frowns, fingers stilling on the keys. "The best of us," he corrects him, and elaborates when he catches Adrien's questioning glance. "That phrase. It happens to the best of us, isn't it?"

Adrien shrugs. "No, it doesn't," he says, thinking of Marinette, gone at sixteen, of George's sister who might not even reach half that. "Not at all."

George is quiet then. He turns back to the piano and plays the section perfectly.

"I knew you could do it," Adrien says.

"I was faking it to see if you'd notice," George says. "You're acting kind of funny."

"Am I?"

"You haven't made a single pun since I arrived."

Adrien gives a non-committal hum. "I'll get a photocopy done for you next week," he promises, reaching to fold away the sheet music.

" _Marinette_ ," George reads off the top of the page, and smiles. "That's nice. It even sounds like her name. She'll like that."

"Maybe one day you'll write her a piece of her own," Adrien suggests. " _Annette_ , by George Maurier."

"Is that what this is?" George asks, uncharacteristically inquisitive. "A song for Marinette?"

Adrien pauses a second too long, and his breathing seems to fill the silent room. (" _It's in your lungs, mostly_ ," the doctor had said. " _I'm so sorry, Mr Agreste_.")

"In a way," he says eventually.

"Did she like it?" George asks, sounding faraway and distant even though they're barely two feet from each other.

"She died."

"Oh." Sound comes back to the world slowly, and he hears George swallow before murmuring, "I'm sorry to hear that," the same way he must have heard countless adults react to his sister.

"It was a long time ago," Adrien says. His fingers curl of their own accord, and he nods to hide the prickling in his eyes. "I'll see you next week, George?"

"Thank you, Mr Agreste."

:: ::

When they were sixteen, Marinette said that she would hate to be immortal. It was a class debate, the question of whether it would be a blessing or a curse to experience life endlessly, to see everything, to watch it fade into the distance as time wore on. Adrien had gone out on patrol that night still thinking about it, and he'd asked Ladybug later. They hadn't known each other then, or at least not like they had later, and he'd been surprised when she'd said, "I'd hate to be immortal," without even pausing to think, and then, more hesitantly, "You?"

Adrien had shrugged. "I don't think I could make it that long," he'd said, because they reached deeper, truer levels of honesty with each other long before exchanging anything as superficial as names. _But maybe I could with you_ , part of him had wanted to add, because sixteen-year-old Adrien was sentimental and desperate and so, so in love.

It was like a part of her had known that, however deeply, because less than a year afterwards, just before she'd thrown herself into the last battle they'd fight together, she'd turned to him and said, "Whatever happens, you keep going, Chat. You keep going," and when he'd opened his mouth to say something, anything, she'd risen up on her toes and kissed him gently on the cheek, and then she'd kicked the door down and left him to follow. Her words had echoed in his head, all the way to the end, all the way to now. _You keep going_ , she'd said, and he'd tried. He'd tried so hard.

In a way, even though he's nearly eighty years old and he knows promises made when you're fifteen don't have to last, he's glad he doesn't have to try anymore.

:: :: 

On his second morning of knowing he's definitely going to die- not that he hadn't known it or thought about it before, it's just out of his hands now- Adrien is out of milk.

He could easily just eat toast instead, or nothing at all, but he's been dependent on at least one cup of coffee a morning since he was fourteen and doing photoshoots which wanted to catch the dawn on a clifftop or something equally unreasonable, and he hasn't really taken himself out in a while, so he puts on his coat and, after a little thought, invites Tikki and Plagg along too.

Tikki's thrilled; she's still fascinated by humans even after all these years, and she gives good advice. As Plagg puts it, settling into his familiar spot in the curve of Adrien's shirt collar, nobody's going to pay attention to an old man talking to himself anyway.

"What usually happens?" Adrien asks. "When you get handed on." He cringes at the wording, not meaning to make the immortal spirits sound like unwanted Christmas gifts, but neither of them seem to mind.

"It depends on the situation," Tikki says. "If we're needed, we go to the next miraculous holders, and get returned to the Guardian when the danger's passed."

"Except with me," Adrien says, and none of them comment on it, because they all know why Plagg stayed with Adrien after Hawkmoth.

"And if there's nothing, touch wood-" Plagg says, darting out to tap Adrien's head with a tiny fist, "-then we go to the Guardian. There'll be one. There always is. They just don't know it yet."

"But how do I find them?" Adrien asks, stepping off the kerb, and then several things happen at once.

Tikki shrieks _ADRIEN_ from inside his collar and Plagg's claws dig hard into his shoulder and a car horn blares and someone grabs him and pulls him back so roughly his knees buckle and he sits down hard on the pavement. The sound of the car horn fades as a voice- young, female, a little hoarse- demands to know if he's alright.

Adrien blinks at her, catching a glimpse of dark braids and purple cloth before his vision blurs. "I think I may be about to pass out," he says, or tries.

_Black spots in his eyes. His own heartbeat loud in his ears, his own breath ragged and painful. Bright light streaming in above him, half-blinding him._

_“Adrien?”_

_Shock. Sorrow, maybe._

_Black spots in his eyes. A flash of red. A long, long moment where all he can hear is his own scream._

"Sir, are you alright?" a voice is saying. "Sir? Can you hear me?" and then a little further away, "Oh, Jesus _fucking_ Christ, do I need to call an ambulance?"

There's a sudden scuffle of footsteps and another voice, this one familiar and bewildered. "Mr Agreste?"

"You know him?"

"Yeah, he's my piano teacher. What happened?"

"Nearly got knocked down in the road. I pulled him back and he just sort of sat down and stopped responding to anything."

"He might be in shock. Mum! Mum, it's Mr Agreste-"

Adrien blinks once, twice, tries to drag his thoughts together, blinks again, and manages to focus on the two people in front of him. George, waving frantically at his mother, still several metres away, and a girl with long dark braids and a purple hoodie.

"You're the girl from the bus," he says slowly. She looks confused for a moment, and then shakes her head.

"Are you okay?" she asks. "You went down pretty hard."

"Mr Agreste!" George is back in a second, crouching on the pavement, talking frantically. "Mr Agreste, are you okay? My mum can take you home if you want, or to the hospital if you need it, or-"

"Kid, let him answer the question," the girl says. "Jesus."

"I'm okay," Adrien says. "Nothing broken." He rests a hand on George's shoulder as he stands, and feels the two kwamis tucking themselves under his sleeves, tiny heartbeats thrumming against his skin where nobody can see them. He looks at the girl again, and one of them- he suspects Plagg- pinches him hard on the elbow. "What's your name?" he asks her.

"Miriam." There's a distrustful look in her eyes, a steel forged in the sort of fire a child shouldn't have to experience.

"Thank you for your help," he says. "Can I do anything to repay you? I was just on my way to get some coffee, would you like something?"

Her reaction is immediate- a step backwards, a glance at where he's still leaning on George. "I have somewhere else to be," she says.

He nods, trying not to betray his disappointment, and rummages in his pocket for his wallet. "Well, have one on me." He slips his business card into her hand along with the ten euro note, and she raises an eyebrow at him as George's mother approaches them.

"Are you alright, Mr Agreste?" she asks. "What happened to you?"

“I wasn’t looking where I was going,” he says. “I would have walked right into the road if this young lady hadn’t caught me in time. I’ll be alright now. I was just on my way to get some coffee- would you like to join me? My treat.”

“That’s very kind of you, Mr Agreste,” George’s mother says- Julie, that’s her name- “but we were just heading back to the hospital.”

“The hospital?” Adrien echoes. Too late, he notices the shadows under both of their eyes, the red tinge to George’s eyes and the paper bag of cheap pastries Julie’s clutching alongside her handbag. “What’s wrong? Is it Annette?”

“Yeah,” George says, an odd hollowness in his voice, and Julie nods, and Adrien’s heart breaks a little at the look on Miriam’s face behind them, her gaze flitting between them like she’s somehow putting the pieces together.

“Please let me know if there’s anything I can do to help,” Adrien says, and means it. “You have my number, don’t you, George?”

Miriam slips away, unnoticed amidst the conversation, and Adrien doesn’t stop her.

“George,” Julie says, a hand on her son’s shoulder, “why don’t you get some coffee with Mr Agreste? It’ll be better than waiting, and you won’t be far away.”

Adrien’s surprised when George doesn’t protest, but then he remembers the cold flat feeling of hospitals and the way it aches to sit indoors and wait for news, and he nods and gestures down the road. “My usual’s just down the road,” he says, and waits for George to lead the way.

The café isn’t far from his old Lycée, and he points the turning out to George when they pass it. “Oh, yeah,” George says. “That’s my school.”

“Really?” Adrien says, taken aback by his own surprise. So much of Paris has changed since he grew up in the city, so much of it worn away to forgotten memories, that he’d almost forgotten that some of it would have remained the same. It’s strange to think that there’s still children in the school. “What do you think of it?”

“It’s alright, I guess. School’s school, you know? Just the same thing every day. Nothing exciting ever really happens.”

“A bit different to in my day, then,” Adrien says with a chuckle, and George frowns at him. “Keep in mind I was at school half a century ago,” he adds, not expecting him to get it, and watches George’s eyes widen.

“Oh! You were around when the whole Hawkmoth thing was going on- oh man, that was so long ago!”

“Yeah,” Adrien says. “I guess it was.” He can feel Tikki and Plagg inside his chest, thrumming with curiosity- Tikki in particular has always been interested in how their story gets passed on down through generations. Adrien doesn’t usually like to talk about it, but he can tell just how badly George needs a distraction right now, and he’s probably too preoccupied to look into things too deeply. Nobody in Adrien’s life at the moment seems to have made the connection between his surname and the Hawkmoth debacle, and he’d like to keep it that way. “Do you learn about it in school or something?”

“Only a little,” George says. “Mostly I’m just interested in it.”

“Interested? Why?”

“I don’t know, I just like superheroes. They help people. Mum says they’re a positive role model. Did you ever meet them?”

They’ve arrived at the coffee shop now, a quiet, bright place that certainly wasn’t there when Adrien was growing up- he can imagine that if it had, he, Marinette, Nino, and Alya, maybe some of the others, would have come here on their lunch breaks, maybe after school sometimes if they had a chance. The thought makes him smile, and he almost misses George’s question completely.

“Mr Agreste?”

“A few times, yes,” Adrien says. “I wouldn’t have called them friends, and I doubt they knew who I was, but they got around, you know? I think everyone in Paris must have met them at some point.”

“What were they like?” 

Adrien pauses, allows a few minutes to pass while they order their drinks and find a table. “They were nice,” he says eventually, and can feel Plagg sniggering under his collar. “They did their best to stay polite, even though it can’t have been easy to deal with it all. Chat Noir wasn’t so good at it. He used to avoid the reporters if he could, especially after-“ He breaks off suddenly and tries to cover it up with a sneeze. He knows that Alya and a lot of the other classmates were involved in lobbying the various media outlets to give him privacy after everything came out, and he’s grateful for it, for the time they bought him and the way everything eventually faded away, leaving him in relative anonymity. He hasn’t spoken to any of them in years, though. Sometimes he wonders if he should.

“What about Ladybug?” George asks, completely unaware of the thoughts running riot through Adrien’s mind. “What was she like?”

“Better with people. Better in general, really. She had this way of speaking and moving and _everything_ that just made everyone feel like things were going to be okay. It looked like confidence, but it wasn’t, really- we were just kids, but she was really determined to do something. Anything she could. It was… it was awful, what happened. I don’t think any of us ever really recovered from it.”

There are tears in his eyes. Their drinks arrive. George looks hesitant, stirring his hot chocolate until the art in the foam dissolves completely. “What was it like?” he asks eventually. “Living like that.”

“I never got akumatised myself, but a lot of my friends did,” Adrien says truthfully. “It was scary, but we were also kind of used to it- it went on for about three years, and the magic meant nobody was ever seriously hurt, not until the very end.”

George nearly drops his spoon. “Magic?” he echoes, eyes wide and bright. “They never told us there was magic.”

“Oh, _me_ _rde_ _,_ ” Adrien says without thinking; he can tell from the look on the boy’s face that he isn’t joking. There’s a scuffle under his shirt collar- at a guess, he’d say that Tikki is doing her best to stop Plagg cackling out loud and blowing their cover altogether. He hopes it isn’t noticeable from where George is sitting. “They didn’t- oh, damn.” He has no idea how they’ve managed to keep magic from becoming public knowledge in the years since the whole series of events became considered recent history, but judging by the way George is looking at him like he’s either a cracked old man or possibly Merlin himself, they did a pretty good job.

“Magic is real,” George says, taking Adrien’s lack of protest as confirmation. “Oh my god.”

“We never really understood it,” Adrien says, too little, too late. “Ladybug and Chat Noir- it wasn’t spells and Harry Potter stuff. They were still human. The magic just helped put things back like they were supposed to be. Buildings and cars and people. Injuries, too.”

“Oh,” George says, and goes quiet. Adrien doesn’t realise that he’s crying until he scrubs at his eyes with the napkin that came with his drink.

“George?” he says softly. “Hey. George.”

George looks across the table at him, cheeks pink with shame. “I’m sorry,” he says, in a voice that is far, far, older than it should be. “I’m, uh. It’s kind of a lot.” Adrien can tell he isn’t just talking about the sudden revelation that magic exists.

“Is it serious?” he asks instead. “With Annette?”

George nods, thin shoulders slumping. “She was fine yesterday,” he says, a hand outstretched like he’s begging for someone to tell him he’s wrong. “Just tired. Cranky, you know? But in the night… Mom and Dad woke me when they were leaving for the hospital, and my aunt is coming to stay for a bit, but she lives in Lyon and can’t get here until the weekend, and now Annette’s in a coma and Mom and Dad won’t tell me what’s going on and that just means it’s bad, doesn’t it?” He’s shaking a little, breath catching unevenly in his throat, voice hoarse from holding back tears, and Adrien feels that familiar surge of helplessness rising up inside him. “I’m sorry,” George says again.

“Don’t apologise,” Adrien tells him. “You have absolutely nothing to apologise for, George.”

“Can we go back to the hospital now?” George says in a small voice, pushing his unfinished hot chocolate away. “Please?”

Adrien just nods and hails a cab as they step onto the busy street. He can see George pulling himself together on the way, watches him inhale for four, hold for six, exhale for eight. It’s the same technique Adrien’s known since he was about the same age, taught to him by an older model who held his hand the first time he had a photographer’s hands linger a little too long while adjusting his clothes, the same technique he showed Chloe and Nathaniel and Marinette, eventually. In for four. Hold for six. Exhale for eight. He doesn’t interrupt until they pull up in the hospital parking lot.

“If you need anything, just let me know. You can come and stay with me for a few days until your aunt gets here, if you don’t want to be at home by yourself and your parents can’t leave Annette. You don’t have to ask, just show up if you need to. Okay?”

“Okay,” George says, and manages a surprisingly convincing smile. “Thanks, Mr Agreste.”

“Good luck,” Adrien says; it’s not quite the right phrase, but something in his tone must get the message across, because George nods and straightens his posture a little before he goes.

:: ::

“Who’s the kid?” Plagg asks as soon as Adrien gets out of the cab, rummaging in his pocket for his keys. “One of your students?”

“Yes,” Adrien says. The door swings open when he tries it, and he pauses on the threshold. He could have sworn he’d locked it when he left.

“He sounded so sad,” Tikki says softly, and Adrien shushes her. “What’s wrong?”

“I think there’s someone in the house,” he mutters. “Hang on-“

“I’ll check,” Plagg says immediately, and zips off into the darkness of the house before either of them can stop him. He’s back in less than a minute, an oddly troubled expression on his little face. “You need to see this,” he says, all his usual humour gone, and leads the way into the kitchen. There’s a scattering of paper across the table, articles that he’s deliberately never read but can date with a single glance.

_LADYBLOG EXCLUSIVE: VILLAINY IS OUT OF STYLE AFTER TRAGIC FINAL FIGHT_

_PARIS IS SAVED, BUT AT WHAT COST?_

_LADYBLOG EXCLUSIVE: MEMORIAL TO TAKE PLACE AT EIFFEL TOWER_

_CHAT NOIR YET TO REAPPEAR FOLLOWING CONFIRMED DEATH OF PARTNER_

_THE GIRL WHO DIED FOR HER CITY: REMEMBERING LADYBUG_  
  
_BEHIND THE MASKS: IDENTITIES REVEALED FOLLOWING FINAL BATTLE_

_LADYBLOG EXCLUSIVE: STOP HARASSING CHAT NOIR, HE’S BEEN THROUGH ENOUGH SO LEAVE HIM THE FUCK ALONE_

Adrien feels the blood drain from his face. “Who- who left this?” he asks hoarsely, not expecting Tikki or Plagg to answer- they’re probably as shocked as he is, clinging to each other in the hollow of his collarbone. He can feel his heart pounding in his chest, the familiar constriction of panic. _It’s in your lungs._ He reaches for the nearest article, hands shaking. He can’t breathe, he can’t breathe, he can hear her voice in his mind telling him to _keep going_ and he honestly can’t think how he’s done it this long.

:: ::

The day that Adrien found out his father was a supervillain, it was as if he’d entered a strangely calm dreamlike state, one from which he’d never fully emerged. It had been bizarrely easy, in the end, a simple matter of deflecting a butterfly as it headed towards a potential victim (they’d rescued a child’s lost toy from the Seine and handed it back, and laughed with the relieved parent about how their jobs were never usually this easy), and then followed as it drifted through Paris, steadily moving north, slowly reaching familiar territory. They'd passed the school, the park, the bakery, and then it had finally fluttered through the barred gateway to the Agreste mansion, the sunlight gleaming off its wings like a speck of snow as it made its way to the western tower.

"Oh," Ladybug said softly, and Adrien remembered her saying that she liked fashion. She probably knew whose home this was. Looked up to him, even. "Oh, _god_ -"

"Are we going in?" Adrien asked, surprised at how steady his voice was. "Now?"

Ladybug hesitated, still staring up at the rose window where the butterfly had disappeared. "We can't," she said. "My friend- this is his home. He deserves a warning."

"How do you know he's got nothing to do with this?" Adrien asked, just in case.

He wasn't expecting the fire in his lady's eyes when she turned back to him and said, "Because he'd rather die than take part in something like that."

That night Ladybug showed up at Adrien's house. She said, "Can I take you somewhere? We need to talk," and he said yes because he'd always say yes to her, and they sat in the park in the dark and she told him.

"I know," he said, shivering a little. "I know it's him."

"You- you knew?" and god, he wasn't expecting the betrayal in her voice to sting so much. "You knew your father-"

"Ladybug," he said softly, cutting her off. "I-" and his throat closed up and all he could do was squeeze his eyes shut and whisper _claws out_ and try not to cry when he heard Ladybug's soft gasp.

“You know me,” he said, voice rough and trembling, eyes still shut tight.

“Yes,” Ladybug said, and her voice was shaking too. She’d moved to face him, he could tell by the way her voice had shifted and there was a cold draught blowing onto his ribs where her body had been blocking the wind. “Of course I know you. I should have known a long time ago.” There was a flash of light, bright through his eyelids. “Open your eyes,” Ladybug said.

Blue eyes met his, bright and clear and closer than he’d expected.

:: ::

“Chat Noir,” a voice says behind him, softly, like they’re trying not to startle him. “I know this must be upsetting, but I had to be sure it was you.” It’s a girl’s voice, familiar but not immediately recognisable.

“What do you want?” he says without turning, acutely aware of his own vulnerability.

“I want your help.”

“I’m not a hero anymore,” he says. “Please leave me alone.”

“I can’t.”

“Please.”

“Chat Noir-“

“Miriam,” he says at last, because it took him a minute but he’s always been good with names and faces and voices, “what are you doing?” He turns round and pulls out a seat at the table for her before taking one himself. “Sit down and talk to me properly. I have a name, so please use it. I really have a very low tolerance for dramatics.”

She sighs, and crosses to sit opposite him at the table. She’s wearing the same purple hoodie she had on earlier, although now he looks properly he can see that it’s worn and stained, can see the shadows under her eyes and the weariness she’s trying to hide. “You were a hero,” she says. “For years. And then everyone just forgot you.”

“Maybe I wanted to be forgotten.”

There’s a pause after that, long enough for Adrien to reconsider his previous statement about dramatics, and then Miriam says, “But everyone else shouldn’t have forgotten you. They needed you for so long, and you had such a huge impact. You had _magic_ , for Christ’s sake. The city would probably have been destroyed if it hadn’t been for magic. We shouldn’t have been able to just… forget.”

“They didn’t completely forget. They teach about it in schools.”

Miriam scoffs and drags a textbook out of a bag Adrien hadn’t noticed, thumping it down on the table open at a certain page. “They teach us jack shit in school,” she said. “They tell us you existed, they tell us you fought some sort of terrorist, they tell us Ladybug died defeating him, and then they never mention it again. Do you know how long it takes to actually track down anything about it? The files get lost on the internet, the library keeps forgetting where they store them- the easiest thing to find is the Ladyblog, and even then the pages just keep linking back to some old Rick Astley song. You know what I think it is? Magic.”

Adrien stares at her for a bit, and then begins to laugh. “Okay,” he says. “My bet is that the song was just Alya- she ran the Ladyblog, and she was pretty good about privacy after everything- but the rest? Yeah, it’s magic. Not mine, not as far as I know, but I reckon it’s the same magic that stopped people realising it was us under the masks for years.”

“You’re right,” Plagg says- he and Tikki had been reading the articles on the table, so solemn and silent that Adrien had almost forgotten they were there. “It’s not us doing it either. I think magic just has something built into it that makes it easier to ignore, you know? Like it just slides off your memory. The more closely connected with it you are, the more it sticks, but even then you still miss some things until it wants you to know.”

“You and Marinette didn’t figure it out until the end, and it was a while before any of the reporters could really get a grip on it,” Tikki adds. “Alya was the first. I think that must have been deliberate- it must have known she’d help.”

“Okay,” Adrien says, because why the hell not, prescient magic is absolutely not the weirdest thing he’s had to deal with before and, with any luck, it’ll mean that George will completely forget about his slipup earlier today. “But that doesn’t explain how you’ve been able to focus on it long enough to dig out all this and track me down.”

There’s a pause. Tikki and Plagg both move closer to Miriam, exchanging unreadable glances, while she just sits and looks slightly smug. “Maybe it wants me to know,” she says. “Someone’s got to, right? Like, no offence, but you’re old, and there’s no way that you were the first Chat Noir, or that Ladybug was the first Ladybug. You were just the first ones in the time when things actually got documented on the internet and stuck around a bit longer than before.”

“She’s right,” Plagg says. “You know you weren’t the first.”

“I’m sorry,” Adrien says. “You’re, what. Fifteen, sixteen?”

“Sixteen. Seventeen in July.”

“And you think… what, that you’re the next superhero of Paris? Absolutely not.”

“Someone’s got to do it,” she says again. “You and Ladybug were fifteen when you started.”

“And I was chosen! I didn’t walk up to the Guardian and say, ‘hey, I want magical powers,’ because nobody in their right mind would _ask_ for something like this, okay?” Adrien doesn’t remember standing up, but he’s on his feet, hands braced against the table, one article crushed between his fingers. “It isn’t a game, Miriam. It isn’t something cool, or fun. It’s a responsibility, and it’s a burden, and it’s something you have to deal with for your whole life, even when nobody else knows who you are, nobody even remembers you. Look at me. No, _look at me!”_

She does, sweeping her hair out of her face, eyes bright and defiant.

“I should have died fifty years ago,” he says, and sees Plagg flinch out of the corner of his eye. “Hell, without-“ _without her_ , he almost says, and then thinks better of it, “-without everything, it might have been even earlier. And yeah, I helped people, I saved Paris so many times I’ve lost count, I sacrificed everything I ever had and then some. And it was dangerous. I don’t know how many heroes have died in the past, but I can guess, and I honestly don’t know how these guys-“ he gestures to Tikki and Plagg, tiny and silent on the tabletop- “can keep doing it, because I couldn’t watch it again and again and again.”

Miriam clears her throat. She’s standing too, shorter than him by just a few inches. “Ladybug-“

“Her name was _Marinette_!” Adrien is breathing heavily- _it’s in your lungs, it’s in your lungs_ \- and he knows his hands are shaking, but he can’t bring himself to care. “Her name was Marinette,” he says again. “She saved so many people, and nobody even remembers her name. It’s just me.” He forces himself to breathe slowly, one two three four, and sits down again. Miriam stays standing, and the kwamis hover between them, glancing back and forth like umpires. “I’m sorry for shouting,” he says eventually. “I haven’t talked about all this in a long time. It’s difficult.”

“I know,” Miriam says. “And I’m sorry, I really am, I’m sorry about what happened to you and what happened to your partner, but there’s still a lot of problems in the city, magic or no magic. I just want to help.”

“There are other ways to help.”

“They’re not the same. It’s not the magic, or the power, Mr Agreste- it’s the hope. When Paris had Chat Noir and Ladybug, it had hope.” She gives him a sad smile, gaze lingering on the articles still strewn across the table, and then picks up her bag. “I’m sorry to upset you,” she says. “I just wanted you to understand.”

Adrien sits at his kitchen table long after she’s gone. He ignores Plagg’s prodding and Tikki’s worry, and reads the articles. He cries. He fetches food and wine and eats half, leaving the rest to the kwamis. He rereads the articles from the Ladyblog, finding something soothing in Alya’s tone, familiar even after so many years. He wonders what she’s doing now- they’d all left Paris after school, and eventually even the ones who’d been closest to him had given up keeping in touch with him when he stopped answering messages, calls, letters. Now he wonders how much of it was the magic letting them forget they’d ever had anything to do with Chat Noir. A kindness, perhaps, the weight of it landing only on him.

He falls asleep in his chair and dreams of Marinette for the first time in years, choppy and disjointed.

:: :: 

“Adrien,” she’d said, because they were alone on the rooftop and it had been easy, almost too easy, to start thinking of her and Ladybug as one and the same, “are you sure you want to do this?”

“Of course,” he’d said. “I can’t let you handle this alone, my lady.”

“He’s your father.”

“I know.” He forced down the writhing fear in his stomach and offered her his arm. “Come on, we should hurry up. It looks like it’s going to rain, there’s probably someone mad enough about that for him to get started for the day.”

She smiled at that, patting his elbow lightly. “Silly kitty,” she said, and leapt, landing gracefully on the rooftop across the street from his house. He’d left his bedroom window open earlier, and it didn’t take them long to slip inside and through the house, peering round every corner in case they bumped into one of his father’s staff. Finally they were outside the room, the door bizarrely ordinary in one of the mansion’s farthest corridors.

“Remember the plan?” Adrien asked, and Marinette nodded.

“Whatever happens, you keep going,” she said, and then, so quickly for something that would haunt him for so long, she kissed him. “You keep going,” she said again, and then, before either of them could say anything else, she turned and kicked the door down with a yell, and even sixty years later Adrien can honestly say that he has never been so in love.

He let her do most of the talking, partly because he never knew what to say to his father and partly because she was terrifying when she was angry and he wanted Hawkmoth to be scared, damn it. It was a long fight- Hawkmoth used his butterflies as a shield until Marinette’s lucky charm had produced a large butterfly net, the little insects winking out of existence as soon as they were captured- and they were both low on power by the time they were actually face-to-face. Hawkmoth’s hand-to-hand combat was better than Adrien had expected, but it was hardly a match for the two of them. Alya’s last blog post had just been a gif of them fist-bumping captioned _name a better duo, I’ll wait_ , and when Adrien had seen it, he’d smiled until his jaw ached. Between them, they’d finally had Hawkmoth backed into a corner.

“You don’t know what I’m planning,” he’d snarled. “I could be so much more powerful than you could ever imagine. I could do great things.”  
“But you’re not going to,” Marinette said firmly, dodging the kick aimed at her chest. “Not at the cost of Paris. Give it up, Agreste.”

“Haven’t you ever lost someone?” he fired back at last. “Known you’ll never see them again and known you’d do anything to do just that? Your magic has the power to do just that, you fools. They hold the power of life and death. Combine them and I could do anything. I could bring her back.”

“Bring who back?” Adrien asked, although a part of him already knew the answer, had known it as soon as they’d found the other entrance to the room hidden behind the portrait.

“My Emilie,” Hawkmoth said, so softly they barely heard it. “My beautiful Emilie.”

Adrien stumbled, missed an obvious hit, and ended up sprawled on the floor, head hitting the cold stone hard. “You can’t,” he gasped. “You can’t do that.”

“Oh, but I could,” Hawkmoth said. “When I have your powers, there will be no limits to what I can do.”

“Nobody should have that much power,” Marinette said sharply, forcing Hawkmoth back. “Especially not you.”

There was a shrill beep, and he saw Marinette grimace, one hand reaching for her earrings as he struggled to his feet. “We’re running out of time, my lady,” he managed through the tightness in his throat. “Time to pin this butterfly down, don’t you think?”

He was distracted. That’s what would haunt him for the rest of his life: the fact that he’d been so distracted by the idea that his father, the supervillain, had been acting out of a desire to bring his mother back. Plagg tried, over and over, to tell him that he was wrong, that there were some things even magic couldn’t do, and _Adrien you’re a child, you’re a fucking child, please listen to me I have seen centuries and if I have learned nothing else I know it was not and never could have been your fault._

None of it would ever drown out the memories, though.

Hawkmoth getting another hit in as he grabbed for the brooch on his chest, a reckless move born of desperation and another bleeping of Marinette’s earrings somewhere behind them both.

Forced into the sunlight pouring in through the massive window, pinned to the ground by his own staff, the pressure on his throat increasing until there were spots in his eyes.

Hawkmoth prising the ring off his finger. The green flash of his transformation falling away mingling with the spots in his eyes and the sunlight pouring through the window above him.

The moment his father looked down and recognised him, lips parted in shock beneath the mask, forming his name- _Adrien?_ \- before twisting, thin and cruel.

Vision fading, lungs aching, heart breaking.

Spots in his eyes. Marinette, his Lady, an angel in the sunlight, flying.

Not flying but leaping, forcing his father off him and backwards, a silhouette against the window, frozen for a second in all her momentum and rage.

Adrien inhaled as the window shattered and he saw her flying, flying, flying, his father clutched in her grip like a doll in an angry child’s hand, the white stone of the mansion and the whole beautiful city behind them no match for her grandeur.

A red angel.

A red flash.

A girl in the air, not flying, but falling. 

:: ::

Adrien wakes up stiff and shivering to a knocking at the door, hesitant but audible. He feels his joints protesting as he stands, scooping Tikki and Plagg from where they’re dozing on the table beside him and tucking them inside his front pocket as he approaches the door. He’s not sure what time it is, exactly, but he’d hazard a guess at early evening, judging by the dimness of the light through the window above the doorframe. He’s not usually one for napping in the daytime- it’s just as well he hadn’t had any students today.

“Hello?” he says, opening the door, and blinks in surprise when he sees George standing there, pale and worn-looking, a rucksack slung over one slumped shoulder. “George, hi.”

“Is it still okay if I stay here for a day or two?” George says, so quietly Adrien can barely hear him. “My- my aunt can’t get here until Tuesday and Annette’s getting worse and I don’t know how bad it is but Mum doesn’t want me staying home on my own and I said you’d offered and I know it’s kind of an imposition but I don’t know what else to do.”

Adrien barely hesitates, resting a hand on George’s shoulder and ushering the boy into the hallway. “Of course,” he says. “You’d better call your mother, let her know you’re here, and I’ll get some supper together- is pasta okay with you?”

George mumbles something in the affirmative, already slipping his phone out of his pocket. “I’ll sort you out with a bed in a bit,” Adrien calls as he heads through to the kitchen, hoping that he’s got enough left in the cupboards to put something vaguely nutritious together. God knows George looks like he needs it. “There’s a folding sofa in the piano room, the sheets for it are in the cupboard on the left- if you look them out I’ll help you put them on after we’ve eaten.”

“Thanks,” George says softly, clearly more than a little uncomfortable with the situation. Adrien grimaces at the tension so clearly present in the boy’s voice- when he’d offered to let George stay, he’d known they’d only accept the offer as a last resort, and so he can only imagine how desperate the situation must be getting at the hospital. He empties half a bag of pasta into a pot of water, and explains the situation to Tikki and Plagg under the pretence of rummaging around in a cupboard for pots and pans, hoping the noise will cover up his voice enough for George to think he’s just talking to himself.

“Poor kid,” Plagg says, and he must mean it, because he barely gives the cheese on the countertop a second glance. “Is he going to be okay?”

“I don’t know,” Adrien admits. “I’ve been teaching him for a couple of years now, and he’s pretty tough, but his entire family just revolves around the little girl, you know?”

“I bet she’s sweet,” Tikki says softly.

“I’ve only met her a couple of times, but yeah, she is.” Adrien sighs and turns back to the pasta, giving it a half-hearted stir. “Always smiling. Big brown eyes. Laughs at everything you say.”

“Do you want me to set the table?” George says behind him suddenly, and Adrien jumps, Plagg and TIkki scrabbling for a hiding place as he shifts to hide them.

“If you don’t mind,” he says, gesturing to the drawer of cutlery and turning back to the stove, leaning over the pasta in an attempt to give the kwamis a chance to hide in his pockets again. Too late, he remembers the articles still strewn over the table.

“Are these important, or can I move-“ George begins, then breaks off. Adrien keeps his back turned, already knowing it’s too late to stop him. There’s a few moments silence, broken only by George’s sharp intake of breath. “Oh,” he says softly. “Oh, Mr Agreste, I didn’t-“

Something in his voice, a sort of hollow, horrified respect, takes a chip out of Adrien’s heart, and he keeps his back turned until he can swallow the lump in his throat. “Give them to me,” he says softly at last. “I didn’t mean for you to see those.”

George hands the stack to him wordlessly, but Adrien doesn’t miss the way his eyes linger on the topmost title- _IDENTITIES REVEALED_ , Marinette’s class photo and one of his modelling headshots paired against one of Alya’s photos of the two of them in costume. A small part of his mind thinks that the newspaper probably didn’t bother to ask her permission to use it- it had happened before, but he doesn’t remember that particular time. He doesn’t remember much of the aftermath at all.

“I’m sorry,” George says again as Adrien drains the pasta. “I- I shouldn’t have asked about it earlier.”

“It’s not your fault, you didn’t know.”

“Is that why you have them out?”

“No,” Adrien says, dividing the food between two plates. “Someone- someone gave them to me earlier. I hadn’t even read them before.”

“Oh.” George considers this for a moment, looking distinctly concerned. “Why would they do that?”

“I wish I knew,” Adrien tells him. “Do you want some cheese on yours?”

The cheese has several marks in it that look suspiciously Plagg-sized, although George doesn’t seem to be focused enough to notice. He eats mechanically, gaze fixed on the grain of the tabletop, flinching a little when his fork scrapes against the plate. Eventually Adrien takes pity on him.

“Hey,” he says. “Do you have any questions? About all that stuff?”

There’s a spark in George’s eyes when he looks up, but he hesitates before answering. “I- I wouldn’t want to- I’m sure it’s hard to talk about,” he mumbles, cheeks flaring red.

“It is,” Adrien says. “Until today, I hadn’t spoken to another person about it for about forty years. But sometimes it’s good to talk about the hard things. It can help.”

George still looks conflicted, so Adrien cups his hands on the table in front of him, hoping that Tikki and Plagg get the message. They do, flitting out of his shirt pocket and collar to settle in the curve of his fingers. To give him credit, George doesn’t flinch, or cry out- he just stares, eyes wide and mouth slightly open.

“Hiya,” Plagg says. “Do you have any food?”

Silently, George pushes what’s left of his plate of pasta towards the centre of the table. Tikki grabs Plagg before he can dive on it, scolding him in her high-pitched little voice.

“Guys,” Adrien says, and they both quiet. “This is George. He’s one of my piano students, but I was telling him a little bit about the Miraculous stuff earlier today.” He thinks it’s probably best not to let George know the kwamis have been listening in all day. “George, this is Tikki and Plagg.”

“Are they- are you aliens?”

“ _Aliens?!”_ Plagg demands, sounding simultaneously offended and delighted, while Tikki just laughs.

“Not quite,” she says. “We’re called kwamis. We’re the spirits which inhabit the Miraculouses that give heroes like Ladybug and Chat Noir their powers.”

“Oh,” George says faintly. “Um. Nice to meet you?”

“Tikki and Plagg have known me since I was Chat Noir,” Adrien says, “but I wasn’t the first, and I probably won’t be the last.”

“Why are they still with you?” George asks. “Why aren’t there any heroes at the moment?”

Adrien hesitates, because there’s a long answer and a short answer to that question.

“We’re used to waiting for the right people to come along,” Tikki says calmly. “Adrien’s just guarding us until they show up. It is unusual for a Chat Noir to also be the Guardian, but that’s just the way it worked out.”

“Why?” George asks. As Adrien had guessed, he’s latched onto the distraction with a sort of desperate fascination, leaning forward slightly in his chair, gaze fixed on the tiny kwamis.

“It just did,” Adrien says, unwilling to go into the details of how Plagg’s determination to stay with him had surpassed Fu’s traditions and his own self-destructive stubbornness. “I’m not really the Guardian, though. I just… babysit. I don’t know the others that well, really.”

“The others?”

“Long story,” Adrien says. “They’re sleeping at the moment.”

“Okay,” George says. “Can I ask another question?”

“Go for it.”

“How does it work? The magic? Like, in school they mentioned that Paris was pretty badly damaged, that the school was literally torn down before, but when you were talking about it earlier it sounded like you were just talking about the same building. Is that something to do with the magic?”

“Smart kid,” Plagg says, stealing a piece of George’s pasta and holding it with both paws. “Tikki, you wanna take this one? It’s kind of your area.”

Tikki grins, hovering at George’s eye level. “The different Miraculouses hold different types of power,” she says, and Adrien can tell this is a lecture she’s given a hundred times before. “The Chat Noir Miraculous,” she nods to Plagg, and the ring on Adrien’s finger, “harnesses the power of destruction- no, I know, Adrien wouldn’t hurt a fly,” she says, laughing at the look of shock on George’s face. “But that’s part of why we have to be so careful with who gets these powers. They can do a lot of trouble in the wrong hands. Anyway, the Ladybug and Chat Noir Miraculouses are a perfect match. One wields chaos and destruction, while the other holds creation and balance. Together, they can face any force of evil, and Ladybug’s powers allow them to repair any damage afterwards.”

“Cool,” George breathes. He looks more alert than he has all day, leaning forward slightly to get closer to Tikki, eyes bright. “It’s that simple? And is that what stopped you getting hurt, too? I mean, until-“ He stops as if he’s run into something, eyes flicking towards the pile of articles on the table.

“I mean, it’s magic,” Adrien says, surprised at how easily the boy’s taking it all in. “But yes. I think the Miraculouses helped with tiredness, illness, injuries, all of that, and if anything really serious happened, it would be healed along with the rest of the aftermath.” He nearly tacks on an account of one of the times he almost died for real, the one that left a white scar like a belt across his stomach, but thinks better of it. “Ladybug- the Miraculous powers take a lot of energy, and the transformation only lasts so long. In that last fight, she ran out of power, and she… she got hurt. And I couldn’t reverse the damage, and she didn’t make it.”

He has to swallow back the memories still painfully close to the front of his mind, the image of Marinette’s body on the ground outside the mansion, Hawkmoth sprawled unconscious beside her. Afterwards, Nathalie had told him that the medics said it had been quick, that she hadn’t suffered at all. It helped a little, the same way seeing his father walk into prison had helped. It wasn’t like there were pre-existing policies for magical crimes, but Alya’s blog, alongside statements from emergency services and previous victims, had served as an accurate enough account of the potential death toll and other effects of Hawkmoth’s actions to get him a sentence so complicated it would take years to straighten out enough to even consider allowing parole. He’d visited him just once, maybe six months after the fight. He’d asked for forgiveness. Adrien hadn’t granted it, but a part of him had wondered if perhaps he should be the one asking. _I’m sorry I didn’t help you bring her back_ , he imagined saying, even the thought of the words making him feel closed in and trapped all over again. Instead he’d just said _I wish it could have been different,_ and looked at his reflection in the glass, thin and ill-looking from sleepless nights, instead of meeting his father’s eyes. 

(That was the night that Plagg left Fu’s care and came back to him and never left, the night Adrien saw him more scared than he had thought a god could ever be).

“Adrien,” Plagg is saying, here and now. “Hey, Adrien. Where’d you go?”

Abruptly, Adrien realises his hands are shaking. Across the table, George’s face is inscrutable, a mixture of emotions playing across it as he stares at the kwamis.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have- I didn’t want to upset you,” he mumbles.

“It’s okay,” Adrien says. “Really, it’s okay. It was a long time ago, George.”

“But it was _awful_.” George looks on the verge of tears, and Adrien’s grateful when Tikki zips over to perch on his shoulder, gently nudging his cheek like a small, affectionate pet.

“It was. It was tragic and traumatic, and I really should have talked to someone about it instead of hiding it away for most of my life, but it happened, and I can’t change it, no matter how much I wanted to.” He sighs and shakes his head. “It gets easier,” he says. “It doesn’t go away, and it doesn’t hurt any less, but it does get easier.”

George takes a deep breath. “Thank you,” he says. “For telling me. I think I’ll go to bed now, if that’s okay.” 

“Of course,” Adrien says. “I hope you sleep well- my bedroom’s upstairs, just give me a shout if you need anything.”

“Thanks, Mr Agreste.” He pauses in the doorway. “Can I ask one more thing?”

“Go for it.”

“The piece. _Marinette._ Is that…”

Adrien nods. “Yeah,” he says. “That one’s hers.”

:: ::

It’s not the truth, he thinks later, the tune looping in his head like an old film. Despite sleeping earlier, he sleeps again, and dreams again- Marinette in the rain, an umbrella in one hand, reaching out to him with the other.

 _It’s not the truth_ , he says to her. _The truth is, they’re all your songs. Everything I ever did is yours._

 _Silly kitty_. _Keep going._

_You always say that._

She laughs at him. _Keep going_ , she says again, and hands him the umbrella. _Promise me._

 _I promise_ , he says, and then the umbrella jolts in his hand and collapses around his face, and he wakes up gasping, gasping, gasping for a breath that doesn’t come.

“Adrien! Adrien, can you hear me?”

“Adrien, wake up.”

“Adrien, he took it, we couldn’t stop him-”

“Adrien Agreste, if you don’t open your eyes this instant then so help me-”

He forces his eyes open, still wheezing, and sees all the kwamis gathered anxiously around him, Tikki and Plagg at the centre. There’s an unfamiliar feeling in his chest, not the usual tightness of panic but a dull ache, like he’s been holding his breath too long. “What’s going on?” he manages, and breaks into a coughing fit.

“He _took_ it,” Trixx says again, eyes wide and anxious.

“Took what? Plagg, what’s-” The coughing doesn’t let up, sharp and hoarse in his throat, making his eyes water.

“Breathe,” Plagg says instead, unusually gentle. “Adrien, you’ve gotta breathe. Come on. The rest of you shut up,” he adds. “Come on. Just like we used to practice, do you remember? In. Hold. Good. Out.” He talks him through it until the coughing subsides, all the time exchanging anxious looks with Tikki and the others.

“What’s going on?” Adrien asks again, slumping back into the pillows. “Plagg?”

“George took your Miraculous while you were sleeping,” Plagg says, and Adrien realises for the first time that the ring is missing from his finger. “We tried to stop him, but…”

“He’s the next Guardian,” Wayzz says, so quietly that Adrien almost doesn’t hear him.

“ _What_?”

“It’s true,” Tikki says. “I should have realised earlier, when we were talking- I wouldn’t usually have been able to tell anyone what we told him. He shouldn’t even have remembered you telling him about the magic.”

“But why does he have the ring?” Adrien asks. “Where did he go?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” another voice says. “He thinks it can save his sister.”

“Miriam,” Adrien says, trying to sit up without triggering another coughing fit. He feels so, so tired. He can’t breathe. “Why are you here?”

“Tikki fetched me,” the girl says, as if that explains everything, and crosses the room to help him sit up. He lets her, too disorientated by the situation to resist her grip. She’s dressed in the same purple hoodie she was wearing before, but when he looks at her properly, he can see that she’s wearing pyjamas underneath, her shoelaces untied.

“Jesus,” Adrien murmurs, more to himself than anything. Sitting up, he can breathe a little easier, but there’s certainly still something very wrong. _It’s in your lungs, I’m so sorry,_ echoes in his mind for the thousandth time, and suddenly everything makes a little more sense.

“Be honest with me,” he says, looking at Plagg. “That Miraculous was the only thing keeping me alive, wasn’t it?”

“More or less,” Plagg admits. “You’re in pretty bad shape, Adrien.”

Miriam doesn’t look at all surprised by the news, but her face does soften a little. “Magic, huh?” she says, sitting on the edge of the bed and pushing her braids away from her face. “Lucky you.”

“Could it help her?” Adrien asks. “Could the Miraculous help Annette?”

The kwamis exchange a series of looks. “Possibly,” Nooroo says eventually. “It wouldn’t cure her, but it might strengthen her enough to set her up for recovery.”

“She needs surgery,” Miriam says. “If it could make her strong enough for that, she might have a chance.” At Adrien’s questioning glance, she tosses her braids back from her shoulders and says, “I volunteer at the hospital sometimes, that’s how I know her. And George, though he’s not usually around. I think his parents try and keep him out of things as much as they can.”

“It could help,” Plagg concludes. “But for it to work, she’d have to accept the powers of the Miraculous.”

“Absolutely not,” Adrien says, at the same time as Miriam asks, “What does that mean?”

“She’d have to become the next Chat Noir,” Adrien says hoarsely, and breaks into another coughing fit, something thick and wet in his throat that he can’t dislodge. When he can breathe again, he looks at Plagg and Tikki, not caring how desperate his voice sounds. “You can’t let that happen. She’s too young. She deserves a proper chance to be a kid. She deserves a _choice_ , Plagg.”

“Becoming Chat Noir was the best thing that ever happened to you,” Plagg points out.

“But I had a choice. I could have said no.”

“You wouldn’t have. You were chosen for a reason.” Adrien glares at him, and Plagg glares right back. “Don’t argue with the magic, kid,” he says.

“I’m eighty-four.”

“And I’m a god. If the magic wants it to happen, it’ll happen.”

Adrien slumps back in his pillows, horribly aware of his heartbeat pounding in his ears. “It’s not fair,” he says, and it comes out as a wheezing sob. “None of this is fair.”

“I’m calling an ambulance,” Miriam says abruptly, and everyone turns to look at her like they’d forgotten she was there. “You need to go to the hospital, Mr Agreste.”

“Oh, forget about me,” he says, knowing she’s probably right and refusing to care.

“No,” she says. “You need to go to the hospital so we can talk to George and explain what’s going to happen once he gives the Miraculous to his sister.”

There’s a long silence, broken only by Adrien’s wheezing and the sound of Miriam tapping at her phone. “Yes,” she says. “I need an ambulance, as soon as possible, please. My grandfather is very sick,” and she reels off the address. “They’ll be here soon,” she says, meeting Adrien’s eyes with a gaze that’s surprisingly warm. “Don’t worry. Everything’s going to be okay.”  
  


:: ::

He can see the edge of the Eiffel Tower, lit up in the night, from his hospital bed. It feels like a bit of a cruel joke, to be honest, but then again that just seems to be how his life has been going recently, so he lets it be and tries to ignore the various machines he’s hooked into. Tikki and Plagg are here, tucked into the bedclothes like a couple of stuffed toys. Miriam disappeared to find George when they arrived, apparently recognisable enough from her volunteering to get away with wandering off into paediatrics in the middle of the night. 

“I never thanked you,” he says quietly, and feels Plagg shift beside him.

“Thanked me for what?” he asks.

“The last time I saw my father. When I got home.” He takes as deep a breath as he can manage. “I was going to kill myself,” he says out loud for the first time. “I really was. And you came back. Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me for that,” Plagg says. “You could apologise, though. You scared the hell out of me, kid.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, Adrien.”

“I’m dying.”

“Yeah. Yeah, you are.”

“And it’s okay.”

Plagg pauses this time. “Yeah,” he says again after a moment. “Yeah, it is.”

Adrien nods, and Tikki wriggles a little closer to him. He can feel her heartbeat, hummingbird-fast, against his collarbone.

When Miriam comes back, she’s tugging George along behind her. The boy’s face crumples as soon as he sees Adrien, which means she must have already explained what was going on to him. Adrien’s glad. He’s not sure he could cope with the whole thing being hashed out again.

“Mr Agreste, I’m so sorry, I didn’t realise-“ George’s voice is shaking so badly it’s difficult to understand what he’s saying. His hands are shaking too, and his shirt is buttoned up wrong, one side of his collar brushing the curly tips of his hair. “-I just, when you said it helped with injuries and illness, I thought maybe- maybe it could help- I’m sorry, I didn’t know, I swear I didn’t-“

“George, it’s alright,” Adrien says gently. “I don’t mind.”

“You don’t mind? I- but you’re-“

“I’m old,” Adrien says simply. “Happens to the worst of us, you know. It had to happen at some point.” He pauses to catch his breath, and ends up coughing again, painful and dizzying.

“The real problem is what happens to the Miraculouses afterwards,” Plagg says. “As Guardian, it’ll be your responsibility to make sure they’re kept safe until they’re needed.”

George’s face pales a little, but he nods. “Okay,” he says. “I- okay. I can do that.”

“Plagg-“ Adrien begins, unable to draw enough breath to complete the sentence.

“Plagg is technically bonded to Annette now,” Tikki finishes for him. “You’re really going to have to be careful with that. Child heroes… it can be risky.” There’s a sadness in her voice that none of them fail to pick up on, and it’s clear from the look on George’s face that he hadn’t thought of that.

“I don’t want Annette to be a hero,” he says quietly. “I just want her to be okay.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Miriam says. “It’s obvious, isn’t it? Let the magic help her as much as it can, and then give the goddamn ring to me. I’ll do it.”

Plagg, perched on Adrien’s shoulder, falls into the bedclothes in shock. “Excuse me? That’s really not how it works-“

“Says who?” Miriam counters. “Your magic’s letting me remember all this even exists, and I’m a damn sight better prepared to actually help people than the five year old or Mr Agreste.”

Plagg disentangles himself from the blankets and hovers in the air between them, tail flicking in agitation. “But-“

“And if you dare say I have to be fucking _chosen_ , god of tiny cats, then I'm the one doing the choosing.” Even dressed in pyjamas and a ragged hoodie, Miriam radiates the same strength and sheer determination that Adrien remembers seeing on the bus only a few days ago.

“It’s a hard job,” he murmurs, but she hears him. “It’s lonely. I told you before.”

Miriam crouches down beside him, taking one of his hands in hers. “I know about loss, Mr Agreste,” she says. She’s close enough now that he can read the faded lettering across the front of her hoodie. _Préventation des Jeunes Suicides de Paris_. “Believe me. I know that you can’t change anything that happened before. All you can do is try and make sure it never happens again.”

Her eyes are brown, bright against her dark skin. Adrien barely knows the girl, but there’s a spark of stubborn kindness there that feels oddly familiar, and it’s all he can do to nod. 

“Are we agreed?” Miriam says, standing up and facing George. “You take the box of tiny magical flying things, and I’ll deal with the loud one once your sister doesn’t need his magic anymore.”

“Sounds like a plan,” George says, looking slightly dazed. “Oh my god.”

The sun is rising in the distance; Adrien can see it, smudges of pink and gold and orange appearing in the distance behind the tower. It’s beautiful. Tikki is talking, telling George that a Ladybug will probably show up at some point soon. “Just keep an eye out,” she’s saying. “Wayzz will help you.”

“Adrien,” Plagg is saying, almost in his ear. “Adrien, can you hear me?”

“Don’t you have a kid to take care of?” Adrien murmurs. The others in the background have faded away; for the moment it’s just him and Plagg, an old boy and a tiny god, the sun coming up before them.

“Always,” Plagg says. “One at a time, though.”

“I’m going to be okay,” Adrien says, and means it. 

The sunrise is spreading over his city, brighter than he’s ever seen it before.

**Author's Note:**

> listen to the playlist for this fic [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1KYk58iFcmiRWdb2r1tJG3?si=LsVg4-LAT46-3IuuZVvp1g)


End file.
